A Simple Death.

Our hooves,
kicking up golden splinters.
Slowing the world till it cracks, and
announcing every trembling grain.
We are.
Chipping sparks, ripping embers.
We are
waking the shoreline,
bringing the growl to the wolf
and
the grin to the wayfarer. 
Stand aside, bow.
Heed. Steed.  The chant and cinch
of leather straps, the sweat
of windswept mane,
the heels turned inward, the eyes and heart
awakened. 
Of both of us.   Even.
Stirring the gods'
envious of the tides lapping at our stride. 
I would live here. 
Sip champagne from the rooftop porches,
stare eloquently westward,
as the horizon melts... 
fade as it does.  Too in turn. 
I am.  imagining it.  
And to those who belong to the ghost of the river,
or to the grayness and forests
of Santa Cruz,
this is an ordinary dream.   A simple death. 
But to us.  But two us.
We reach out with young and eagerness.
Cradling its sacred edges,
its delicate, faltering
disappearance. 
And marvel greatly. 





Andrew Tipton